


Touched By An Angel (And It Bloody Hurts)

by Hedgehog-o-Brien (Roshwen)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Also the 14th century was not Boring, Can't be helped, Crowley and Aziraphale Through The Ages Part Two, Crowley came up with the Library of Alexandria, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fast and Loose through Canon too, Fast and Loose through History, He did you can fight me on that, Hurt/Comfort, I'll give you one reason why and it starts with P, Iffy Timelines are Iffy, It was a Lot but it was not Boring, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale, Pining Crowley, Poor Crowley, Slight AU since I'm pretty sure this wasn't in the book or show, but who cares, you can pry these two from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2020-05-02 05:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Hedgehog-o-Brien
Summary: An angel’s touch burns.He should have known, theoretically. He’s a demon; there’s an angel; they’re supposed to be. Incompatible. Conflicting. Spiritually, cosmically, they are not supposed to be in close contact with each other and they arecertainlynot supposed to touch each other.He just didn’t realize there would be a physical component to it as well. Had no reason to suspect it, not in those early days.He will learn soon enough.





	1. BC

An angel’s touch burns.

He should have known, theoretically. He’s a demon; there’s an angel; they’re supposed to be. Incompatible. Conflicting. Spiritually, cosmically, they are not supposed to be in close contact with each other and they _certainly_ are not supposed to touch each other.

He just didn’t realize there would be a physical component to it as well. Had no reason to suspect it, not in those early days.

He will learn soon enough.

\---

He starts to learn it in Mesopotamia, where the skies are darkening and the distant hammering takes on a frantic edge, so loud it is drowning out the bleats and roars and bellows of the hundreds of panicked animals surrounding them. The angel is standing next to him, blabbering on about ineffability and _it’s just the locals_ and _rain-bows_ and Crawly is reeling, an unfamiliar anger and even stranger grief flaring hot inside because:

‘There’s _kids_ here, Angel! _Kids!_ You can’t kill _kids!’_

The angel’s face loses its doubtful chipperness and his eyes fills with sorrow instead. ‘It’s the will of the Almighty, Crawly. I can’t…’

‘Well, you have to do _something!_ For… for pity’s sake, you’re supposed to be the _good_ guy!’

‘I _can’t._ ’

The angel’s voice is wretched, but Crawly doesn’t listen. He stalks past, meaning to turn around and yell at the top of his lungs to the crowd, yell, shout, swear at them, call the dogs of hell to get them moving, do _whatever it takes_ to get all of this blasted humans on that _fucking_ boat.

He never gets that far. Before he’s taken two steps, there’s a burning, searing hotter than hellfire, around his wrist, along with an insistent tugging. ‘Crawly, _stop.’_

He stops. Looks down at his wrist, where his skin is already blackening and smoking underneath the angel’s grasp. The smell of roasted meat fills his nostrils and makes him gag. He supposes it hurts; he doesn’t feel anything, weirdly enough. He only sees the raw, oozing wound when the angel releases him, the flesh almost seared away right to the bone. He hears the angel’s voice, heavy with pity but still filled with heavenly righteousness and authority.

‘Crawly, go. There is nothing worse you can do here than what is already going to happen and I don’t think _your bosses_ would like it if you tried to do something… something un-demonlike. _Go.’_

He is standing very close now, almost but not quite touching, so close that Crawly can smell him, over the burning and right over all the muck and sweat and animal stench. ‘ _Go,_ Crawly.’

Crawly looks down at his arm. Within seconds, the vivid wound is closed, the blisters and cracked skin have healed and it’s like nothing ever happened. The angel clears his throat. ‘Sorry about that, dear fellow. But you really should leave. I do think that’d be for the best.’

Overhead, the clouds that have gathered are almost black. There is a faint rumbling, a heavy gust of wind and then, one by one, the raindrops start to fall. The people around them look up, confused but not dismayed; in this dry land, rain is always welcome.

Crawly looks back at the angel. A picture of misery in his white clothes, the angel makes a faint ‘shoo’ motion with his hands. Crawly sighs and turns back, just in time to see one of the animals make a break for it.

Well, he thinks bitterly as he stalks away. That’d be the end of the unicorns, then.

\---

He doesn’t see much of the angel, after that. The angel, true to his duties as ever, spends most of his time trailing after one of the many Middle Eastern tribes. It appears to involve a lot of wandering around the desert and fielding complaints about not having enough water, food, water, food again, a bunch of poisonous snakes manifesting in their tents because they’d complained about not having any food too much, and the fact that there’s already people in the land that was ‘promised’ to them.

Crawly had to laugh at that. If these really were the Chosen People, he thought, then the Almighty had her work cut out for her.

Instead, he heads to Egypt. Close enough to Aziraphale’s desert tribe to look like he’s keeping an eye on things (not unlike that person in PE who always hovers at the far end of the soccer field and insists they’re still playing) but _much_ more fun. He ‘helps’ them invent politics, which earns him his first commendation from Downstairs; and then, just to stick it to both Up- and Downstairs, he decides to help them speed this thing called civilization up a bit.

He’s very proud of the result. So proud, in fact, that he can’t help but drag the angel over all the way from Babylon to come and see.

\---

_Alexandria, 268 BC_

‘Crawly, I do actually have some important business to take care of, you know. I have to…’

‘Yeah, I know. Deliver good tidings, smite the wicked, bless all the dear children, whatever. Come on.’

‘Where _are_ we?’

Aziraphale looks around, the loose end of his white garb held protectively over his mouth and nose. They are standing in front of a large, no, _huge_ building. Larger than anything the angel has seen before, standing smack dab in the middle of one of the largest _cities_ he’s seen until now. Babylon, yes, that’s a great city too, but Babylon has _grandeur._ It has temples and hanging gardens and it’s beautiful and smells of flowers and spice (and it’s also a den of iniquity that Aziraphale should not spend so much time in, not when there’s the next part of the Ineffable plan is a mere three centuries away although Gabriel seems to have that one covered); this city on the other hand, is a teeming ant’s nest filled with people and the stench takes his non-existent breath away.

‘Alexandria,’ the demon says proudly. ‘You remember that lad Alexander? Called himself the Great?’

‘Ah, yes. One of your pet projects, I take it?’

‘I liked him,’ the demon grins. ‘Shame he got a bit carried away. Still, A for effort I guess. Anywho. Come on, get inside.’

The jostle of the crowds propels them forward, up the steps and through the door. It also makes Aziraphale stumble and, on an instinct that comes out of nowhere, Crawly reaches out. ‘Whoa there… _shit._ ’

‘Oh dear, I am sorry,’ the angel says, looking bashfully down at the red blisters and welts forming on the demon’s hand. ‘Better keep my distance, I take it.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Crawly mutters, blowing over his hand. The skin calms down at once, angry red turning back to healthy pink. ‘Although when we’re inside… yeah. Better not stand too close. Not too keen on hot things inside, big no-no.’

‘I can see why,’ Aziraphale says once they’ve made their way inside. They are standing in a large, cavern-sized hall, dim and dusty with the smell of ink and paper and sweat hanging thickly in the air. All around them are shelves, shelves and shelves and _shelves_ creating a maze that would give Daedalus a run for his money. And the shelves all around them, they are filled with…

‘Scrolls.’

‘Yes, they are.’

‘A _lot_ of scrolls.’

‘Yes.’

Hundreds, thousands, _millions_ of scrolls, papyrus and parchment all lined up neatly in their own little cubbyholes, or spread out on the tables in between the shelves, or tucked away haphazardly to be reshelved later; they are everywhere, ranging from near white to yellow to almost brown with age, and every single one is covered in pictures, letters, texts, all the ways humanity has found so far to express itself and make it last.

The angel looks around, his face a puzzled frown. ‘Why, exactly? I mean, I’m sure it’s very impressive, but I fail to see…’

‘Because it’s not the scrolls,’ the demon says with a grin that shows off all his teeth. ‘It’s what’s on them. It’s _knowledge._ Everything they’ve managed to learn so far, it’s all right here in this building. Everything they need to get themselves out of the mud and into… into the _stars_ if they want to! Don’t you see?’ He barks a brief laugh that echoes through the gloom. ‘The Almighty’s made a Tree of Knowledge, but I’ve got an entire fucking _building_ full of it. Let’s see who’s more effective, huh?’

‘First of all, you know I cannot condone blasphemy,’ Aziraphale says primly.

‘Oh, stuff it, angel.’

‘Second of all,’ the angel continues, ‘quick question: how is this supposed to be evil?’

‘What?’

‘You made something that humans can use to better themselves. You made something to _help_ humanity, Crawly. I’m not sure that’s something you’re supposed to be doing.’

Aziraphale’s face beams with something that is almost unholy glee. ‘You did something _good,_ Crawly. _Well_ done.’

Oh no.

Oh no no no non _no_.

_That_ is not going to fly. One, two steps is all it takes to grab the angel by his tunic and shove him up against one of the shelves. ‘ _Don’t_ ssssmirk at me like that, angel,’ the demon hisses, his face inches from Aziraphale’s. ‘It’s called _sssscience_ and I’ve got _plans_ for it. _Big_ plans. We’ll ssssee who’s laughing in a hundred years, sssshall we?’

‘I think you’d better let go,’ Aziraphale manages, a little worriedly. ‘You said they weren’t too keen on hot things inside?’

Small tendrils of smoke are rising from Crawly’s hands, tickling his nostrils right before the (by now familiar) smell of scorching flesh hits him. ‘Aw, _fuck._ ’

‘But I take your point,’ Aziraphale says as the demon jumps back and starts blowing down his hands again. ‘Erm. Just out of interest. What do you call this… this kind of knowledge building?’

Crawly stops rubbing his hands together to glare at the angel. ‘It’s a library.’

‘Library,’ the angel repeats, tasting the word and suddenly looking thoughtful. ‘Hm. I like it.’

\---

_Rome, 41 AD_

‘I say, dear fellow, you don’t look too chipper. You can’t have gotten into trouble with Downstairs, have you? Not when you’ve got that lad Caligula all…’

‘’s not him.’

‘No, I didn’t think it would be.’ Aziraphale puts down his oyster and looks at Crowley. The demon knows what he looks like, and what he looks like is misery incarnate; dark rings underneath the snake eyes, a toga that hasn’t been washed in days judging by the wine stains and hair that’s only failing to be a bird’s nest because it’s as greasy as Petronius’ frying pan. ‘Care to tell me what’s bothering you?’

‘What, like one of those confessions? Nice work on that, by the way,’ Crowley sneers. ‘Getting humans to tell each other all their secrets. That’s never gonna backfire.’

‘It’ll be good for their soul,’ Aziraphale says calmly. ‘And you’re avoiding my question.’

For a moment, it doesn’t seem like Crowley is going to answer; he just stares at the far end of the bar, unblinking and unseeing, his throat working until he lets out a heavy sigh. ‘You remember that library I showed you?’

‘Oh, yes. I still think it was a great idea, which I’m aware was probably not what you were…’

‘It burned down.’

‘It what?’

Aziraphale actually has the good grace to look upset, which shouldn’t warm the black cockles of Crowley’s heart (or whatever passes for it these days), but it does, ever so slightly. ‘Oh, my dear fellow. I am so sorry to hear that.’

‘Didn’t even notice,’ Crowley continues, pouring all the bitterness of the past eighty years into his voice. ‘Wasn’t even there. Too busy. Too busy faffing about in _Judea_ looking after your _fucking_ carpenter guy! Never even heard about anything happening, then one day I go ‘oh hey let’s see how they’re coming along over there’ and boom. Big empty hole in the ground, that’s all that’s left of it.’

‘Oh, my dear fellow.’

Aziraphale reaches out. Probably only to pet Crowley’s toga since he surely must know by now that actual touching is no good, but Crowley still flinches and the angel’s hand comes to a rest at the edge of his chair. It stays there, stubby fingers curling as if they are looking for something to hold.

Crowley stares.

Aziraphale’s hand stays where it is.

Crowley blinks, then hisses a swear word that glows faintly in the dim light of the inn. ‘Bloody Romans. It was that Caesar fellow, you know.’ He takes a swig of wine, making a face as it goes down his throat. ‘The fighty one. Got him back, in the end. But still.’

‘Ah.’ Aziraphale ponders quietly for a moment. ‘You know, I heard about that. I did think that stabbing someone twenty-three times was a bit excessive.’

‘Not nearly enough.’ Crowley takes another swig and swears again, releasing an ominous red shape that hovers over their table for just a second. ‘Not nearly enough.’

\---

When Aziraphale leans over the table to attract the barmaid’s attention and pay for the oysters (honestly. He’s an angel, Principality of Heaven, part of the Hosts of the Almighty and he _pays_ for his _oysters_ ), his bare hand brushes against Crowley’s for just a second.

The angel doesn’t notice. There’s no fretting and pouting and stammering excuses or ‘oh dear fellows’, which, frankly, Crowley is grateful for.

But it does leave a mark. A small, red welt the size of a berry, just below his thumb. It hurts a little when Crowley flexes his hand, or presses the thumb of his other hand against it to feel the too-smooth skin. It stings, sending a small flare of heat up his arm as a small, pathetic echo of the first time he tasted hellfire.

He could miracle it away. Easily enough.

\---

The welt dries out in under a day. The scab, which Crowley has _not_ been picking, falls off after a week, revealing shiny brand new skin. And for the next twenty centuries, he walks around with the faintest little discoloration on his hand, a small pink circle just below his thumb.

Barely noticeable, you only see it when you know it’s there.


	2. AD

He doesn’t know if the feeling is mutu… if angels burn when a demon touches them too. Of course, he knows Aziraphale is _aware_ of the effect. He used it quite nastily to his advantage, after all, that very first time. But whether the angel gets a shock, gets burned or even feels a spark every time they come into too-close contact with each other… Crowley doesn’t know.

(He’s pretty sure they don’t, really. Aziraphale seemed remarkably unflappable, every time. But then again. It would be like the angel to keep the straightest of straight faces when in excruciating pain, Crowley’s sure of that too).

To be honest, he doesn’t really care. All he needs to do, is stay out of the angel’s way, except when he’s throwing demonic wrenches into heavenly plans. But he can do that from a distance; there’s no need to get close.

No need at all.

\---

_410, Portus Dubris, Britannia_

‘Shame,’ Crowley remarks as he sidles up to the angel. They are standing on a clifftop, his bright red hair dark with rain and flying in the wind; Aziraphale has wrapped his toga tight around him, white hair plastered against his forehead and his shoulders hunched against the downpour. ‘Thought they had a good thing going for a while. Shame it didn’t last.’

Below them, the harbor is teeming with life, people running to and fro, animals bleating and bellowing, orders being shouted and being drowned out almost immediately. It reminds Crowley a little of that other time they were standing in the rain, almost four thousand years ago now. Except this time, a lot more people than Noah are about to board a lot more boats.

‘It is a shame,’ Aziraphale agrees. He doesn’t speak up; they could have been in the Colosseum, surrounded by a crowd bellowing for blood and Crowley would still be able to hear the angel perfectly. ‘And just when I thought they were getting somewhere, too. Have you seen the things they built?’

Crowley nods, but doesn’t say anything. They both watch, silently, as order appears in the chaos below: soldiers arrange themselves in neat lines, centuria by centuria, cohort by cohort. Another order, echoing across the docks, and slowly, efficiently as all things Roman ever were, the march forward begins. The sound of hundreds, thousands of footsteps thunders on the wooden gangplanks as the soldiers move into the ships, leaving the docks all but empty behind them.

Then the cries on the docks are replaced by the cries of the shipmen, sails come down with a snap, ropes groan and strain against the wind as the first ship casts off.

One by one, the Roman ships set sail. Out of Dubris, out of Britain. Into the darkness.

‘So,’ Crowley says after a long pause. ‘Are you going to stay here, then?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ the angel replies thoughtfully. ‘I… I don’t actually have any orders, at the moment. And it _is_ awfully damp up here. Perhaps I should…’

‘Whatever you do, don’t follow them to Rome,’ Crowley interrupts. ‘I know you’re about to go and tell me about some osteria or other that does, I don’t know. Things to shrimps. I hate shrimps. And you shouldn’t go to Rome.’

‘Well, now that you mention shrimps, there’s this wonderful little… oh.’ The angel frowns. ‘Why, what’s in Rome? Also, you do realize that whenever you tell me _not_ to go somewhere, it is automatically assumed that I _should_ go there, don’t you?’

Crowley rolls his eyes. ‘Well, if you do want to go, you better hurry up. Downstairs is sending up some _nasty_ pieces of work. Another fifty years at most, and you can wave your precious little whateverias goodbye.’

‘Oh.’

The angel’s shoulders sag. Pouting in a way that Crowley does _not_ find adorable, he does _not,_ he looks like a drowned puppy, soaked through to the skin even though Crowley’s pretty sure that it is absolutely unnecessary for Aziraphale to even let himself be touched by the rain. ‘So. This really is the end of…’

‘The Roman Empire, yes. Told you it was a shame.’

‘I see.’ The angel’s mouth twists. ‘Yes. Dreadful shame indeed.’

‘Aw, come on angel, don’t look too glum,’ Crowley grins. He reaches out and bumps the angel against the shoulder, careful to hit the toga instead of skin. It still feels warm, warmer than it should be in this icy rain and Crowley, cold-blooded as he is, can’t help but let his hand linger for just a moment longer. ‘They’ll come up with something else soon enough.’

‘Yeah.’ Aziraphale swallows and bumps a pudgy fist against Crowley’s upper arm in return. It feels like a jet of scalding water, the heat searing into his skin but Crowley could not care less. ‘Yeah, I suppose they will.’

Crowley grins again as he wraps his arms around himself, ostensibly shivering but actually carefully placing a hand on the lingering warmth on his arm to stop it from dissipating too soon. Because losing that little spot of heat, out here in this freezing world? That _would_ be a shame.

‘Iberia, then? I hear they do wonderful things to wine there.’

The angel beams. ‘Iberia it is, dear fellow.’

\---

Iberia was nice. Sunny. Warm. A lot warmer and a lot more fun that that You-Know-Who -forsaken wet rock in the Atlantic Ocean.

Crowley should have known it wasn’t to last. After all, cold and damp and uncomfortable were exactly the words you’d use to describe Hell, so it’s no wonder he gets sent back up there as soon as Rome is over and done with.

‘Should feel right at home,’ Hastur tells him jovially.

‘Right at home,’ Crowley repeats, looking at his jug of port and trying not to sound hollow. ‘Sure. Right at home.’

\---

The one good thing about being sent back to Britain? He bumps in to the angel again not a decade later.

The even _better_ thing about being sent back to Britain and bumping into the angel again not a decade later? The Arrangement they come to, which means that Crowley:

  1. Can get his assignments done twice as fast and keep the extra time to himself with no one the wiser;
  2. Will see a lot more of the angel, because an arrangement of this nature requires regular, if not frequent communication; and
  3. Will get a change of pace. All the tempting and leading astray-ing has gotten a little…. Well. _Boring_ is not the right word, because can you be bored of something that’s practically built into your system? But it’s gotten, it’s gotten… repetitive. Humans might be endlessly creative, but demons are less so and after the ten millionth ‘seed of doubt planted into thy mind’, Crowley welcomes the chance to try and get someone to _stay_ on their intended path. Just for a change.



Of course, he only tells himself about reason A. Because reason A makes sense and sounds sensible, and reason B and C? _Absolutely do not._

(And he most definitely does not even _think_ about Secret Reason D, which is that in this cold and wet and _Hellish_ land, Aziraphale is like a space heater, radiating Heavenly warmth. Irresistible, glorious warmth that would pull in far stronger creatures than a demon who did not even want to be one. One touch and Crowley will burn, but that does not stop him from sidling up a _little_ too close to the angel every single time. At first, Aziraphale steps smartly out of the way every single time, which frustrates Crowley to no end. ‘You have to be careful, you know,’ the angel will berate him. ‘Don’t get to close. You’ll get hurt.’

Crowley grumbles and hisses and rolls his eyes. And then steps closer again.

‘Alright, have it your way.’

And reason D is stupid and does not make sense and it’s _stupid._ So Crowley does not think about it. At all.)

\---

_1348, Florence, Italy_

Ten years ago, Florence was a bustling city, one of the largest and richest in Italy and certainly the most influential. Because Rome might have had the Pope, but Florence had the banks and at the end of the day, our daily bread will always triumph over spiritual sustenance. If only because you kind of need the first before you can properly worry about the latter.

Ten years ago, Florence was a rather nice place to be. Which was why Crowley, with his usual disregard for authority, had decided to pop over for just a bit, because, well. He could.

That was ten years ago.

This is now.

Now, Florence is a ghost town.

The markets have closed. The opulent palazzos are boarded shut. The churches too. The streets are empty, completely deserted. Even the air above the cobblestones seems to have lost all sense of life. It’s hot, cloying and it _stinks_ of death, of sick and rot and Crowley can taste it even as he takes another morose swig of wine.

They have been sitting on the steps of the brand new palazzo at the edge of the Piazza della Signoria and drinking for at least a day and a half now. The wine is good; it’s from the cellar of one of the leading families and it’s heady and sweet and red and thick as he guzzles another bottle down.

The previous owner won’t mind. He’s dead. Just like everybody else.

Finally, Crowley can’t stand the quiet any longer. ‘So. Is this it, then?’

‘Is this what?’ Aziraphale asks, voice raspy with wine and a bone-deep weariness that Crowley absolutely _hates._

‘The end? Is this… like how it’s going to end?’

‘What?’ Aziraphale turns around, giving Crowley a worried frown. ‘My dear, whatever gave you that idea?’

 Crowley returns Aziraphale’s worried look with a thoroughly unimpressed one and a rude gesture to the city around them. ‘Gee golly gosh, I don’t know, angel. _Whatever would give me that idea?_ Great big war over in France, great big plague going around here, great big famine a couple of decades ago all of them leading to lots and lots and _lots_ of dead people… seems to me that Someone up there is ticking all the boxes until they can pull the plug!’

‘They aren’t,’ Aziraphale says quietly. Crowley scoffs. ‘No, I promise. They aren’t. I… I don’t know, I’m not that involved in end-of-the-world-affairs, but it isn’t now. Not yet.’

‘Damn well looks like it,’ Crowley mutters. He stares at the bottle of wine. It’s empty, and then it’s not and he picks it up to take a healthy gulp.

‘I know.’ The angel sighs. Crowley puts the bottle down, and, finally, driven in equal parts by wine and despair and feeling more down than he has ever since the Fall, gives in to the _want_ that he’s been repressing for centuries, just a little. Just this once.

He scoots closer to the angel until he’s practically leaning against him.

‘Crowley, what on earth… be _careful!’_ Aziraphale jumps, trying to move away but Crowley’s hand closes around his arm.

‘You won’t hurt me, angel,’ he says, almost grinning. ‘And it’s like I said. It’s might not be the end, but it damn well feels like it. Let’s face it together, hm?’

Aziraphale swallows, his hand coming up and closing over Crowley’s arm. ‘Is that why you are wearing this _ridiculous_ getup? To get close to…’

Crowley shrugs. His heavy leather overcoat squeaks a little with the movement as he turns around and looks at the beaked mask that is lying forlornly to the side. ‘There’s flowers and things in the beak,’ he says softly. ‘Helps against the smell, at least. And it, well. It seemed appropriately…’

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Aziraphale is looking at him with such understanding that Crowley falters, mouth just twisting with everything he’s leaving unsaid.

‘Come here.’

It takes a bit of tugging, a bit of jostling and some more ‘ _careful!’s_ but at last, Crowley is lying with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, the mask under his face and Aziraphale wearing his gloves as protective measures against accidental demon burning. It is a lot closer and a lot more intimate than what Crowley had been aiming for, but as he closes his eyes, soaks up the warmth that slowly spreads through him, he finds he cannot exactly complain.

Silence falls again. Around them, the city of Florence, Italy, all of Europe is dying and Crowley is going to have to watch it happen.

But he’ll be blessed if he is going to do it alone.

\---

(Years later, _decades_ later, when Europe has been ravaged to the point where the entire social system has collapsed underneath it, Aziraphale finds Crowley again.

‘I heard from Upstairs. Apparently, Pestilence got a little overzealous.’

‘A _little_?’

‘Yes, well. From what I hear, he’s had a very stern Talking To. If he’s not going to behave and wait his turn, then he’s going to be replaced. They say.’

‘ _Replaced?’_

‘Indeed.’

‘You can’t just _replace_ one of the Riders, angel. For a start, what would they even replace him _with?’_

‘I don’t know. But apparently, Gabriel has some ideas.’

‘Oh good… _Her_.’

‘Indeed.’)

\---

And so they go. Throughout the centuries, Crowley seeks out his angel like a moth drawn to a lightbulb. Or rather, like a snake drawn to the warmest spot in their rocky enclosure.

Aziraphale does not seem to mind. Not when Crowley makes sure they both get something out of their encounters, every time so the angel would not see the real, the plain and simple and _selfish_ reason behind it all. He shoots Shakespeare into the stars because the angel likes his plays; he follows him to Paris in 1793 (grumbling and muttering all the way because _honestly_ angels should have more self-preservation than _that_ ), he even follows Aziraphale into a church, although that _is_ a little too hot for him and his shoes will never be the same.

And Aziraphale smiles and flusters and looks at him with wonder and something that is almost fondness until Crowley can barely stand it. But that doesn’t mean he stays away, because Aziraphale is warm and Crowley is so very very cold _all the time,_ has been ever since his own warmth has been ripped out from inside of him.

So yeah. Sue him. He is going to take full advantage of that warmth, even if it burns him. Which means he’s sticking with the angel for as long (and as close) as he’ll let him.

Until the end of the earth, if that’s what it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Despite everything Crowley tells us in the book and the show, the 14th century was Not Boring. It was, in fact, a _very_ interesting time.
> 
> Also, the part about Portus Dubris was greatly helped along by Rosemary Sutcliff's wonderful book _The Lantern Bearers_. Go pick that up if you can, because she does a better job of describing how the Romans left Britain than I ever could.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR and happy end of this fic! Now, before you get your hopes up: I am NOT at this moment in time planning to finish my other Good Omens WIP's (yes, I know, prepare the pitchforks). It's just, this one is the only one that would not stop pestering me AND the only one I actually knew _how_ to end, so, here we are. Enjoy and as always, kudos and comments are much appreciated ^^

It starts (again) with Adam.

\---

But before that, it ends in a bookstore where all around him a fire roars and rages, flames consuming everything and burning like ice.

Aziraphale is gone.

A jet of water hits him, knocks him down and he _stays_ down, screaming at the top of his lungs even though there’s nobody who’ll hear.

He’s gone.

Crowley turns over, spots a book. Takes it, because he can’t leave it there and then, slower than a glacier, crawls upright and makes his way out of the burning ruins. Into the street, into the world that is about to end. Crowley doesn’t care.

Aziraphale is gone.

It’s like someone has switched off a light inside of him, even though the very thought is ridiculous; but as he walks down the street, the book still smoldering away inside his jacket, he feels colder than he ever has before.

\---

He has been shivering away for he doesn’t know how long in this bar he doesn’t know where, when a glimmer of hope appears. Something happens, a shift, a change in the air and then:

‘A…’

‘Crowley?’

‘Aziraphale!’

And it’s not enough. Crowley knows that he’s being ungrateful, he _knows_ this miracle is already far more than he deserved but his angel is, no, he’s not _dead_ but he’s also not _here_ and the world is ending and everything is terrible and Crowley needs him.

There.

He thought it.

The one thing he has never dared to express, never in all the time he’s known the angel, and now at the literal very last minute, he finally comes clean, or as clean as a demon possibly can.

He needs Aziraphale. Not in _that_ way, per se, that particular Deadly Sin has nothing to do with it, but. He needs Aziraphale much in the same way the humans need to know that the sun will come up and that tomorrow will follow today and that, whenever they go grocery shopping, there will always be a fast lane and a slow lane and they will inevitably pick the wrong one. He needs Aziraphale, humming away in his bookshop and doing his level best to discourage customers from entering, let alone buying anything; he needs Aziraphale taking him out to wonderful little Japanese, Italian, Vietnamese, French restaurants where Crowley will pick at his food and Aziraphale will clear plate after plate; he needs Aziraphale side-eyeing him whenever he performs a minor temptation, and he needs Aziraphale beaming at him whenever he (not so) grudgingly agrees to do something _nice._

He needs Aziraphale.

He knows that currently, Aziraphale is trapped in the body of some kind of pretend psychic weirdo (or possibly, since it’s a lady, a weirdette), hurtling down to a place called Tadfield on a moped that does not know what hit it. And Crowley may be damned, but he will be _blessed_ if he lets Aziraphale go down there on his own.

\---

‘Think of something, or I’ll never talk to you again!’

The upside of the situation? Aziraphale is back, in the (miraculously created) flesh. Standing over him, blond curls sticking up in all directions, blue eyes wide and desperate, swinging a flaming sword like he’s Michael himself and it’s one of the most breathtaking sights Crowley has ever seen.

The downside of the situation? Almost everything else, starting with the fact that that is quite literally the worst threat Crowley has ever received. Beelzebub could not even come _close._

_\---_

But, and this is the truly amazing thing: they manage. He doesn’t know how, exactly, or why, or what happens (he’s not even sure that _he_ has something to do with it, it might just as well have been all Adam), but at the end of it all, it’s him and the angel, standing alone at the edge of an abandoned military airfield and the fact that the angel is still there, that _he_ is still there, that the _abandoned military airfield is still there_ is already enough to fill Crowley with a possibly lethal amount of wonder.

But that’s not all.

Because before Adam Young was carted off in an ancient VW Beetle by an righteously outraged Mr. Young, he stopped. And turned back to fix both Crowley and Aziraphale with a look that was far too shrewd for any ten-year-old, be they the literal Antichrist or no.

He stopped and looked and Crowley was all too painfully aware of the picture they were presenting: standing closely together, so close he could once again feel the heavenly heat radiating off Aziraphale’s form. Aziraphale still looked unkempt and a little shaky, but Crowley looked far worse; there were pieces of deceased Bentley in his hair, his glasses were gone and he had not had the strength to recreate them, his suit was tattered and scorched and he felt about ready to drop.

‘Something’s not right,’ Adam said and he frowned. Crowley swallowed, waiting, and oh so tempted, _so_ tempted he was practically trembling with it, to take Aziraphale’s hand, hell, take the whole Aziraphale and not let go until the next Apocalypse, even if he burned to ash and cinders in the process.

Then Adam’s face cleared. ‘Oh. I see.’ Another moment of silence and then the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness clambered into the back of his father’s car, which sputtered to life and waddled off into the sunset. Leaving an angel and a demon blinking at the dusty strip of concrete, not quite sure what the hell or heavens just happened.

Crowley is the first to clear his throat. ‘Home?’ he ventures, even though as he says it, he knows Aziraphale doesn’t have one anymore.

But the angel nods, shoulders sagging like drooping wings. ‘Please.’

Crowley nods too and reaches out, despite six thousand years of painful experience screaming at him, to clap Aziraphale on the shoulder. He fully expects the burn even through the layers of wool and cotton, braces himself for it even but he needs this, he needs to ground himself just a little and if it hurts him, then so much the better, actually.

But it doesn’t hurt.

A piece of soot falls off the jacket. Crowley catches it and stares, unblinking. It crumbles in his fingers, flies away on the wind.

‘Shall we go then? I do believe that that was the end of it.’

It didn’t hurt.

‘Crowley?’

It didn’t.

‘Crowley, I said…’

‘Oh,’ Crowley says, softer than eiderdown. ‘Oh.’

He blinks, then, with commendable speed, rights himself again. ‘Yes. Home. Of course. I believe… I believe there’s a bus stop. Right there. Come on, angel.’

‘Lead the way, dear.’

\---

It’s a good thing demons don’t need air, because Crowley is pretty sure he does not breathe for the entire ride back to his flat. Aziraphale does not notice, or pretends not to notice, or perhaps he’s just exhausted. In any case, he is unusually quiet, even as the darkness outside makes place for the first lights of London. They have been sitting next to each other, Crowley with his arms and legs tucked in as far as they will go, Aziraphale all but slumped in his seat. Taking care, just as he has done for all these years, not to accidentally touch Crowley.

It didn’t hurt.

When they get off the bus, Aziraphale goes first and Crowley can’t help himself. His heart is racing a mile a minute, he only keeps himself from trembling by sheer force of will and he needs to know. He needs to know for _sure._

Aziraphale steps off the bus. Crowley is right behind him.

Crowley reaches out again. Flicks one of the curls hanging over the angel’s collar with his index finger, gently, so he won’t notice.

Nothing.

No sparks, no heat, no blisters. Just the silky feel of hair and the rough wool of Aziraphale’s jacket.

The door behind them slams closed and the bus rumbles off. Crowley barely spares it a glance. He is too busy trying not to panic.

‘Thank you, Crowley,’ Aziraphale says, turning around. Crowley only has just enough time to school his features back into some kind of order. He shoves his fist in his pocket, the fist with the thumb with the only scar he’s kept around for most his existence on this someone-forsaken planet, and nods at Aziraphale, not trusting his voice at the moment. Then, not trusting his face either, he turns around and marches up the steps towards his flat, not even looking back to see if the angel is coming.

Aziraphale takes his sudden silence in his stride, as ever. He follows Crowley quietly, up the steps, into and out of the elevator, into the hallway, past the puddle of holy water (although that makes him pause and a sudden expression flits over his face, so fast Crowley would have missed it if he had not been watching him like a hawk) and, finally, into the kitchen were a bottle of something very strong is already waiting for them.

Crowley has half a mind to down the entire bottle in one go. Instead, he pours two glasses, his hand barely even shaking, knocks one of them back and then, very slowly and without making any kind of fuss whatsoever, crumples to the floor.

‘Ah,’ he hears from a very far distance. ‘Yes. Splendid idea. Though I’m afraid, my dear, that we are not quite through yet.’

\---

Aziraphale is right, of course. They’re not done yet. But Crowley has a plan.

‘Will that work?’ the angel asks, his face the picture of concern. ‘And won’t it… you know.’

He flails his hand, making ouchy noises and Crowley rolls his eyes. He is still on the kitchen floor, having dragged himself up as far as he could go, and he is now leaning back against the dishwasher. ‘It’ll work, angel. And I can take it.’ Not that there will be anything _to_ take but as soon as that thought enters his mind, it is ejected again instantly, with a force that almost gives him whiplash. ‘Will hurt a lot less than the bucket of holy water they’ve got in store anyway,’ he mutters, not meeting Aziraphale’s worried gaze. ‘It’s the best shot we’ve got.’

Aziraphale sighs. ‘Yes. I’m rather afraid it is.’

\---

And against all odds, _this_ harebrained scheme works too. Although it almost falls to pieces when Crowley comes _this_ close to punching that blessed smirk off Gabriel’s smug rotten face, but he bites back his bile, steps into the pyre and settles for scaring the ever-loving heavens out of him instead. It’s almost as fun and it will have to do, because then he is back on earth, back in Berkeley Square and his own lanky form is waiting for him on a park bench.

He strolls over, for all the world the picture of a calm and collected, if slightly outdated, gentleman. Sits himself down on the bench. Nods at Aziraphale.

After a minute, and a moment’s concentration from Aziraphale, he holds out his hand.

His heart is in his throat again and he knows his palm is sweating as Aziraphale takes it. He had been able to explain the lack of burning during the first swap by making up a fast and rambling story, something about cosmic energies and shifts and a whole lot of nonsense that he is not quite sure Aziraphale bought but he did not comment either and if he keeps his wits about him, pulls his hand away in time, then there is no reason the angel should be any the wiser.

Which is probably for the best. Make sure they’ll both their distance, even if they don’t technically belong to opposite sides, or _any_ side anymore. It’s only sensible.

‘Swap back, then?’

Crowley is good at a great many things. Being sensible is not generally one of them.

Sensible is boring, after all.

Long, slender fingers wrap around shorter, pudgier (but no less well-manicured) ones. There is a moment of confusion, of the universe being pulled through a needle like a strand of wool and then Crowley’s back in his own body and Aziraphale is back in _his_ own body and they are sitting together on a park bench in Berkeley Square and the sun is shining and it’s a beautiful day and Crowley still has not let go of Aziraphale’s hand.

‘Crowley!’ the angel yelps after a second’s realization. He tries to yank his hand free but Crowley has him in a iron grip, squeezing even tighter the more Aziraphale struggles. ‘What are you… let _go,_ you idiot!’

‘No,’ Crowley whispers, voice barely audible. He shakes his head and Aziraphale freezes. ‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Crowley…’

‘No.’

‘What…’

Then Crowley does open his hand. Revealing smooth, unblistered skin, completely unmarred by any kind of heavenly fire.

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale says, soft as the flutter of a moth’s wing. ‘Oh.’

 Crowley nods, still unable to say anything. He swallows and then, just because he _can,_ reaches out and takes Aziraphale’s hand back in his. It’s smooth, the skin, and warm to the touch and it’s a little smaller than his own hand, a little more tanned too and in a moment of bravery, Crowley moves his thumb, stroking up and down just once along the back and along the edge of Aziraphale’s wrist. The little hair that grows there parts way under his touch and Crowley stops breathing again, mesmerized and in awe and more scared than he has ever been in his life.

That is when Aziraphale makes a noise Crowley has never heard before and he looks up, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes for the first time. Tears are streaming down the angel’s face and he is looking at Crowley with an expression of undisguised hope, mixed with such a bottomless grief that it makes Crowley wonder, for the first time in sixty centuries.

He reaches up. Catches one of Aziraphale’s tears with the pad of his thumb, then ever so carefully, so carefully that he is barely even touching skin, brushes his fingers against the angel’s cheek.

Nothing happens.

Aziraphale lets out another choked sob. For a moment, Crowley has an irrational and terrifying vision of the angel losing control and flinging himself into his arms, which, though not unwelcome _on principle,_ would be far too much to handle right at this very moment in time. But then, seemingly gathering himself, Aziraphale closes his eyes and reaches up as well, taking a gentle hold of Crowley’s hand, the look of grief on his face disappearing and making place for something far more beautiful and far more fragile. Crowley has to close his eyes then as well, but the feeling of Aziraphale’s lips on his knuckles sears into his skin all the same.

‘Did you know,’ Aziraphale starts, voice still impossibly soft. ‘Crowley. Did you know…’

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. By now, Crowley, though a _little_ slow on the uptake, has realized exactly what it is Aziraphale is not saying. And it’s the same reason that, throughout the years, all blasted, bloody, boring six thousand of them, wherever Crowley went, Aziraphale has never been _that_ far out of reach.

‘This,’ Crowley manages, through a throat that feels like it’s made of torn-up gravel. ‘This. Has been a very long day. Angel.’

Aziraphale nods. Now it’s his thumb that is swiping back and forth across the back of Crowley’s hand and small as that touch is, Crowley’s pretty sure that that is the only thing keeping the both of them together at this point. ‘Let’s go home?’ he asks, his voice very bit as rough as Crowley’s.

Crowley nods and stands up unsteadily from the bench. His hand is still firm in Aziraphale’s grip, and remains like that all the way back to the bookshop.


End file.
